Rooted to the Forest of SorrowFell.

The dirt tastes of Earths long suffering,
I'm rooted to the forest of SorrowFell,
Each second shall be Vine scourged eternally,
A nature made made place far worse then hell,
A tear drop falls on an ash leaf waning,
In the cold desolation of autumn,
A crisp wind speaks of early winter sow,
So the roots delve ever to the bottom,
The upturned soil in the woodland rot,
Shows half buried skeletal graves,
Writhing in pile, maggots are thriving,
On the flesh of these ill gotten humans,
In each tree core you will find anew victim,
They feel on the essence of your worst memory,
And when SorrowFell is saturated,
It's wrath against life is no longer held,
The visceral muck is like quicksand,
With each inch you sink your sorrow increases,
No one has ever escaped this place,
The torment will hack your mind to pieces.

Black is my mindset,
Dank is this landscape,
Sorrow became flesh,
Hope now forgotten.
Waist deep in this waste,
Death too close to taste,
But death is a gift,
That has forgotten me...

Rapid agonizing removal of joyful memories what is left a frail ghost once a man.